#resolution19

2.

If anyone asked, the first person Merlin told was his mother. Well, maybe Gaius. But really. His mother.

Hunith was in town, after all. Ealdor had been hard on her after Merlin left, even with the other villagers looking out for her. And with Cenred's constant, overbearing taxation... Well, when her son landed a cushy job at court against all odds, it made sense to pack up the house and move into chambers in Camelot where she could be nearer to her dear son and her brother.

Arthur had promoted her to head of the household - likely out of self-defense - and Hunith had settled quickly into her new role as matriarch and overlord to all the various servants who worked within the castle.

Merlin knew right where to find her. As he descended the castle, he could hear familiar humming. The melody led him to the kitchens, where Hunith was holding court with Cook and a few of the serving girls.

He leaned against the doorway and watched with a grin as his mother dropped the last few ingredients into a pot of broth. The rich smell transported him back to two dozen winters in Ealdor, where the wind would howl outside the walls and rattle the window panes, but their house was warm and snug and smelled of home. It seemed a little out of place, considering the August heat, but Merlin knew he would treasure it come November.

Cook caught sight of him first. Merlin could almost see the "dratted boy" forming on her lips before she remembered his promotion. "My lord," she said instead, inclining her head the bare minimum required.

"Cook!" he greeted her cheerfully in reply.

At their words, Hunith looked up from her soup, music halting as she said "Merlin, what a surprise! Is there anything you need?"

Merlin laughed and ducked his head. "No, mother, I'm fine. I, uh," he hesitated. "I would like to speak with you, if you've got time."

"I've got plenty of time," she said. "The broth just needs to simmer for a few hours. Theresa," she continued, turning to Cook, "would you mind keeping an eye on this for me?"

"Not at all," Cook said, while Merlin was mouthing 'Theresa' to himself.

"Thank you ever so much." Hunith wiped her hands on her apron. "Now, Merlin. What was it you wanted to speak to me about?"

"Um. Well it's...uh," Merlin stammered. "Can we go somewhere else?"

"Of course," Hunith said, but Merlin could hear her surprise. There was little he had to say that wouldn't make it to the kitchen staff eventually, and both of them knew that. Nevertheless, she followed as Merlin led her through the castle to a room he knew was both empty and off the beaten path, reducing the number of curious eavesdroppers they were likely to have.

"What's this all about, Merlin?" Hunith asked warily as he shut the door behind them.

"Well..." Merlin leaned back against the door. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let it all out at once. "Arthur and I got married."

There was silence.

He chanced a peek to see Hunith still standing there, hands over her mouth and eyes watering.

He cringed. "Sor--" Merlin started, but before he could finish his apology, Hunith had moved, throwing her arms around him.

"Oh, Merlin! I'm so happy for you!"

Merlin let out a loud exhale and embraced his mother back. "Oh thank gods," he said weakly. "I thought you'd be mad."

"Mad?" she exclaimed, pulling back so she could see him properly. "Why would I be mad? My boy's getting married! I thought there was something between you and Arthur," she told him. "I knew it!"

"Um, we're kind of already married?" he chanced. "Remember Midsummer's?"

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "A Druidic wedding? That's so thoughtful of Arthur, considering your, well, heritage." She reached up to smooth a piece of Merlin's hair behind his ear. "I just do wish I could have been there."

"Sorry," Merlin said, hoping this was a more fitting moment for an apology. His surprise wedding and eternal marriage just seemed like the sort of thing he should have to apologize to someone for.

"Don't be," she told him. "I'm just glad you're happy. You are happy, right, Merlin?" And now she looked worried.

Any protests Merlin had about his marriage being a sham caused by accidental magic died unspoken. "Of course, mother," he said, and it was barely forced, his smile only slightly too wide to be real. "Arthur and I are both very happy."

Hunith smiled, and Merlin knew she'd believed him.

3.

"Do you remember when we were-- No, no, that won't do. Er. When two men who hadn't previously considered-- No, that's worse. How about, Weddings, huh? Who needs 'em?" Arthur gave a full-body sigh and flopped back on his overly large bed. "No, no," he muttered to himself. "That won't do at all."

Before he could compose himself, there was a knock on his door. Arthur knew this was it.

He pulled himself off the bed, straightened his tunic, and opened the door. "Lancelot, Gwen, thank you very much for stopping by." He stepped back to let them inside and shut the door again behind them.

"Of course, Arthur," Gwen told him warmly. "Anytime you ask."

"Anytime," Lancelot echoed from a half-step behind Gwen. Arthur knew that despite giving his blessing, Lancelot still wasn't quite comfortable around his king, who happened to also be his wife's former betrothed. He hoped this conversation might put any fears to rest for good.

"Er," he opened with. "Lancelot, Guinevere," he continued. Arthur hesitated, then decided to just go for it and see what he said. Nothing could be worse that what he had practiced. "We were going to get married," he blurted, then froze.

Gwen and Lancelot froze as well, wide-eyed, and Arthur could tell Lancelot was not happy with the current course of the conversation.

"And then we weren't!" he finished hastily. "And that's a good thing!" Honestly, at this point he'd swear Merlin could have made less of a complete hash of this conversation. "Because you two are very good together!" He cringed.

Now Gwen just seemed amused and Lancelot was looking reassured, if a tad convinced his monarch was completely insane, which was understandable. Arthur himself was beginning to think he was a little mad.

"Er. This conversation isn't going the way I'd hoped," he admitted.

"It doesn't seem like it, no," Gwen said diplomatically. She would have made an excellent queen, Arthur thought, not for the first time. "Why don't we all take a seat over there and you can try again from the top," she offered.

Arthur thankfully accepted and they decamped to the ornamental couches by the fireplace.

Once they were settled, he took a deep breath. "The thing is..." He hesitated. This was the first time he was really saying it aloud, and it felt like if he never told anyone, it couldn't possibly be true. But Merlin said it was, and magic had strange rules and Merlin knew magic and Arthur trusted him about magic.

He closed his eyes and just said it. "Merlin and I are married." He continued quickly before they could interrupt with the questions he could see forming. "It was a Druidic ritual, we didn't realize at the time. It was a huge coincidence, really, and those sorts of things should come with warning labels--" Arthur cut himself off before he could start rambling like Merlin. "We seem to have become married," he said carefully. "And it doesn't seem reversible."

There was a moment of silence before Gwen clarified, "You didn't mean to get married to Merlin?"

"No!" Arthur exclaimed. "Not at all." He stood abruptly and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I mean, Merlin's alright," he admitted reluctantly to the fireplace. "But he's not...I mean...he's Merlin."

"Exactly," Gwen told him gently. "He's Merlin."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur snapped, rounding on them.

"She means that he is Merlin," Lancelot said quietly. "And Merlin has his own rules."

"What are you talking about?" Arthur asked him, frustration still clinging to his voice.

"You have never treated him like a servant," Lancelot pointed out. "And you have never treated him like a knight. You treat your friends differently as well." He shrugged. "He is Merlin."

Arthur sank back into his seat. "He's Merlin," he conceded. "He doesn't really follow normal rules of logic, does he? Actually," Arthur realized, "I'm a bit surprised he hasn't been accidentally married before."

"Maybe he was waiting for the right person," Gwen said pointedly. Before Arthur could ask what she meant by that, she reached out and took one of his hands in hers. "Congratulations, Arthur, really," she told him sincerely. "Aside from Lancelot, I could not imagine two men who would be better husbands than you and Merlin."

Lancelot nodded his agreement. "There could be no better spouse than Guinevere," he told Arthur, "but if there were, it would be Merlin or yourself."

"Thanks," Arthur paused. "I think."

4.

The castle of Camelot held many secrets in her depths. Some, like the Great Dragon Kilgharrah, had been discovered. Others had not, and could only be imagined from legend and myth.

One was well-known, and regularly received visitors...and new tenants.

The crypt beneath the castle housed dozens of generations of Arthur's family. 'The Pendragon Dynasty' his mother once quoted. The rows and rows of stone sarcophagi gave the cold room an ominous finality. Arthur had been there once, as a boy, when his father's younger brother had died. He hadn't visited after that until they buried his father.

In the light of Arthur's torch, he could make out only the first few stone tombs in any direction, creating the illusion that the room was infinite, and filled with death. A shiver ran down his spine and Arthur reminded himself sternly that he left the door to the crypt propped open with a torch burning to show the way. He did not need to look back and check. He was the king of Camelot.

He glanced anyway.

The light was still burning cheerily in the doorway. Arthur absolutely did not sigh in relief as he turned back to the crypt. The stone tombs nearest him were blank and empty. He knew that one day, he would be buried here, shut beneath a stone slab and locked under his castle. The thought was enough to make his breathing ragged, so he turned the thought aside and progressed steadily through the rows of identical lithic coffins.

He had once thought to be entombed here beside Gwen. Now he supposed he would have Merlin. The thought was oddly comforting.

Finally, he stopped, just past the last blank tombs. He was standing in front of the most recent graves. Uther Pendragon read one side and Ygraine de Bois Pendragon listed the other. Beneath their names were their dates of death and birth and his father's years of rule. There was already dust settled on the surface of their shared tomb.

He stood in front of his parents and felt the same way he did at his coronation: daunted. He cleared his throat. The sound was muffled in the pressing darkness and thick layers of dust. "Father," he greeted, "Mother."

He imagined for a moment what it might have been like to stand before them in person and tell them his news. He imagined his mother's delight. He imagined his father's fury. While his mother's reaction was fully fictitious, his father's was all too easy to imagine. It wasn't better that he had to tell them like this, but it was certainly easier.

"I've gotten married," he told them. "I'm a husband now. And," he hesitated, but their reactions couldn't hurt him now, "I have a husband." The words were awkward on his tongue. "It's Merlin," he said. "I'm married to Merlin." And those words were starting to make sense with enough repetition, starting to mean something.

"Father," Arthur continued, address his next words to the left side of the tomb. "I can't imagine that you would have approved. You didn't like Merlin when he was my manservant, never mind that you gave him to me." He paused. He knew Merlin would have been defiant, and that made him smirk a little. "Now that he's Court Sorcerer, I imagine you'd like him even less.

"Mother." He turned toward the other side, imagining he was likewise ignoring his father's blistering response. "I think you would have loved him," Arthur told her honestly. "He's clever and ridiculous and just when you think he can't be serious to save his life, he turns around and says the wisest thing you've ever heard," he told his mother, in the deep depths of Camelot's crypt. "He makes me a better man and a better king."

And over the sound of his father's imaginary rant, Arthur could almost hear his mother's voice. I'm proud of you.

5.

Merlin didn't exactly mean for Gaius to be the last person that he told. Gwaine had just happened to be there. And then there was his mother, and then it turned out Arthur had told Gwen and Lancelot already, which was probably for the best, considering. But that just meant that when he'd told them again, he'd only gotten smiles and knowing looks.

So yeah, Gaius was the last person Merlin told. Oops?

"And what have you been up to these days?" Gaius asked him over a bowl of stew. Since his promotion, Merlin had moved out of Gaius's back room to his own chambers in one of the castle's towers, which Gwaine had absolutely not taken to calling the Wizard's Tower. Because that would be inaccurate, and Merlin had told him that. Repeatedly. So now he came down a few nights a week for dinner instead, usually with Hunith, but she was helping a new servant settle in that night and couldn't make it, so it was just Merlin and Gaius.

"Well, I'm trying to figure out how easy it would be to divert some of Arthur's linens to my tower," Merlin told him. "I mean, I don't think we'll be sharing a bed soon, but I don't need the feather mattress, just a few thick woolen blankets. And maybe a couple goose-down pillows," he added, putting another spoonful of stew in his mouth and completely missing Gaius's confusion.

"What are you talking about, my boy?" Gaius asked in exasperation.

"It's got to have some perks, doesn't it?" Merlin responded, fishing the last few bits of meat out of his bowl.

"What does, Merlin?"

And now Merlin looked up at him and had a Realization. "Oh, uh, Gaius," Merlin said nervously. "Didn't you hear? I'm married to Arthur." Then he quickly put a spoonful of stew in his mouth so he wouldn't have to say anything else.

"You're what?" Gaius put his spoon down entirely. "When was this?"

Merlin swallowed. "Um, Midsummer's?" he said, and it really shouldn't have been that much of a question.

"The Druids," Gaius inferred. "Well, this is surprising, but I can't say it's entirely unexpected."

Merlin dropped his spoon, splashing broth across the inside of his bowl. "Not unexpected?" he echoed.

"Oh, Merlin," Gaius told him fondly. "You did drink poison for the boy, you know. On top of everything else," he said pointedly. "And don't think I don't know exactly how many times you almost died for him."

"But he's Arthur," Merlin protested. "I couldn't let him die."

"Exactly," Gaius said, with the smug satisfaction of someone who just made an argument they know can't be disputed.

"What?" Merlin asked, beginning to feel like he was the one in this conversation who was lost.

Gaius just gave him a sort of fond, pitying look. "You'll figure it out when you're older."

Merlin just pushed away his stew bowl and dropped his elbows to the table before burying his head in his arms. He was so done with this conversation, he thought sourly as Gaius chuckled.

+1

"Why have you summoned me here, young warlock?" Kilgharrah's wingspan blotted out the stars for a moment before he folded them around himself and settled into the clearing Merlin had called him to.

Merlin scowled. "First off, I'm not that young anymore. Second--"

Kilgharrah laughed. "Next to me, Merlin, you will always be young."

Merlin's scowl deepened. "Second," he continued pointedly, "There was something I wanted to tell you."

"What is it?" Kilgharrah asked, amusement running through his words.

"There was a Druidic ritual. On--"

"Midsummer's, yes."

"How...how did you know that?"

"Every magical creature knew about that, Merlin. When the Once and Future King and Emrys become bonded, everyone knows."

Merlin paused. "So you already know everything."

"Of course," Kilgharrah said. "Did I not tell you that you were two sides of the same coin? This was foretold, young warlock."

"I'm not talking to you anymore," Merlin informed him before turning on his heel and walking out of the clearing, muttering under his breath about dragons and old magic.

Kilgharrah's laughter just echoed around him.

Bonus:

A high-pitched giggle broke through the din and Merlin had to force his fingers to relax enough to set down his glass without shattering it. It was Arthur's thirtieth birthday and all the neighboring kingdoms had sent their unwed princesses and noble ladies to the festivities in the hopes of capturing the king's attention. It was October, three months since Midsummer's and two months and change since Arthur and Merlin realized what had happened on Midsummer's. And everyone still considered Arthur to be the most eligible bachelor in Britain.

Merlin ground his teeth together as another shrill squeal rose over the general cacophony of the room. From two seats down, Gwen shot him a sympathetic look. Almost everyone, he amended. There were a handful who knew, those who had been personally told by one of the pair. Everyone else, Merlin winced as a laugh reached truly glass-shattering pitch, had no clue.

He glared down the other end of the table. Two of Bayard's daughters had come down from Mercia and were attempting to monopolize Arthur. They were the source of the unpleasant disruptions. A third woman seated nearer to Arthur was attempting a more civilized conversation with him. She was from Mora, if he remembered correctly, a distant kingdom, thus affording its emissaries higher status.

Merlin scowled at his beans and tried not to hate her for bumping him from his customary seat directly to Arthur's right. It was only temporary. Once the party was over, they would all leave and Merlin could have his chair back. Not if he marries one of them, a voice said quietly in the back of his mind. Then it's permanent.

Merlin firmly told the voice to shove off.

He looked down the table again and met Arthur's eyes. To anyone else, Arthur appeared courteous and interested, the very picture of a dashing young king. To Merlin's eyes, he looked irritated and stressed. Merlin could read the plea for rescue in his eyes.

Well, Merlin wasn't going to sit here and watch. No. He was the godsdamn Court Sorcerer and he was going to rescue his king. Again.

Merlin stood up with a huff and started walking down the table to Arthur, past a half-dozen heiresses and duchesses. Who did they think they were? Coming into Camelot with their name and their wealth and hoping to take home a crown? Arthur wasn't shallow; not unless he was enchanted.

One of Bayard's daughters, the one seated directly on Arthur's left, reached over to pull him from his conversation, putting her hand on his arm.

How dare she? Merlin thought in a rage, barely keeping his instinctive magic in check. She shouldn't be touching him like that. Merlin should be the only person-- Oh.

Merlin stopped dead two chairs away from Arthur, his magic similarly halted in astonishment. He was peripherally aware of Arthur's concern, hidden behind a smile, and the curious whispers of the eligible ladies he was standing behind. But none of it mattered, because he...

Merlin abruptly realized what Gaius had been trying to tell him. Why his mother hadn't been surprised. What Gwen and Lancelot's knowing looks had been about. He'd bet Arthur's kingdom that if he were to look behind him, he'd see the same look on Gwen now.

And suddenly Merlin knew exactly what he had to do.

He locked eyes on Arthur, stepped forward, put his hands on either side of Arthur's face, bent down, and kissed him. On the mouth. In front of the entire court and representatives from several kingdoms besides.

The room immediately fell silent. Then Merlin couldn't tell if there were whispers or if it was just the buzzing in his ears.

Arthur's lips were rough and warm and, after a moment, opened easily under his.

When he pulled back, Arthur looked at him as if he was seeing him for the first time, which shouldn't have been possible, because Merlin could swear Arthur had looked at him liked that before, the first time Merlin did magic in front of him, and surely at some point Arthur would have seen all of him. He wasn't sure what Arthur saw when he looked at Merlin, but he figured it was probably terror or exhilaration. And maybe something like love.

"Pardon me," the princess from Mora said faintly, and Merlin magnanimously decided that he liked her.

"Excuse me," Arthur told her politely, standing up and taking Merlin's hand as if he'd been doing it for years. "It appears I have some unfinished business with my husband."

Arthur looked radiant as he said it, and Merlin knew his own grin was in danger of splitting his face. His magic bubbled excitedly inside him, and he wanted to laugh in joy.

"Don't stay on my account," she said politely. Bayard's daughters seemed to have fallen into a stunned silence. They would definitely be inviting Mora's princess back.

"C'mon, Merlin," Arthur said and tugged him along behind him to the nearest door.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Arthur pushed him back against it and kissed him again. Through the thick planking, Merlin could hear the hall burst back into riotous noise, and he grinned into the kiss.

"I've been thinking about it since you left--" You mean when I stormed out and barely remembered to grab my pants and wallet, Dean mentally correctly "--and I have come to the conclusion that that was a 'stupid' thing to do."

And he did the damn air quotes, too. Dean couldn't believe he loved this dorky man so much. Hang on...

"You mean you called your brother and he told you it was stupid," Dean guessed.

Cas hesitated, then nodded. "Gabriel did say that it was one of the stupidest things he'd ever known me to do, if that helps," he offered.

Dean sighed. "Not really, Cas." He grabbed his breakaway chaps and started pulling them on. What? He had a thing for cowboys, okay?

"What do you want, Cas?" he asked tiredly, making sure the velcro was lined up properly on the seams.

"I would like to 'redo' our conversation from this morning," Cas said, determination shining through every syllable.

"Fine," Dean bit out, grabbing his shiny, low-cut vest and shimmying into it.

"Good morning," Cas said softly, and damn him, but Dean could picture the way the morning sunlight had filtered through the window of Cas's bedroom, alighting on every lock of his tousled hair and making his blue eyes glow...

Dean cleared his throat, keeping his eyes on the sheriff's badge he was pinning to his vest. "'Morning," he said, not even trying to match his soft whisper from that morning.

"What time's your show today?" Cas asked.

"Matinee at 2," Dean said, checking himself in the mirror and glancing at the clock. Two minutes.

"Do you want to go out for dinner afterwards?" Cas asked, just the same way he had that morning. "I think Jo's been experimenting with a new sauce combination."

And just the same way as he had that morning, Dean could feel affection for this man well up inside him, at the knowledge that he knew how much the Roadhouse and her owners meant to him. The way they were family. He closed his eyes. "I love you," he whispered.

He felt Cas take his hand. "I love you, too, Dean," he said gently. "So very much."

Dean whipped his head around and stared at Cas, but all he saw was honesty. He couldn't deal with this right now. For one thing, he was out of time.

"I'm going to go take some clothes off now," he said faintly around the lump in his throat.

"By all means, be my guest," Cas said, a wicked smile spreading across his face. He gently picked up the cowboy hat from Dean's dressing table and set it carefully on his head.

He balled up his garbage and threw it away, pocketing his phone as he returned to his car. He had just buckled his seatbelt, when he heard the strangest thing, like someone was tuning a radio and sliding up and down the dial. Just lots and lots of static with ever-changing frequencies.

He frowned at his dash, but the car wasn't on, so the radio was likewise silent. The static kept tuning until Cas could make out some words.

"-gel Castiel." Dean paused. "If he's listening, that is." It was a prayer. It had been so long since he had been hailed by a sibling on "angel radio," as Dean called it, that he apparently had forgotten what it was like. And now Dean was calling him.

"I'm not even sure if this is still w......ng. Or if you even want to .........ve to say. But Cas--" and Dean sounded determined now "--I'm going to keep trying." Apparently his connection was still a little spotty. Metatron hadn't done his grace any favors by surgically removing it from its angel, and even with his grace currently restored, his power was waning. Who knew how long he'd be able to receive prayers at all.

Cas ignored the pang in his chest at the thought. He'd been without reception before and he'd do it again. No matter that receiving prayers was among the lowest-powered abilities an angel had. He'd be fine.

"I'm praying to the angel Castiel, if he's st............king my calls. Cas," and Dean sounded lonely, no matter the distance, "you once said you'd always come wh..................ll. Is that still true?"

The static had been longer that time, but it didn't matter. Cas could remember the day he'd said it as if it were yesterday. Half at each other's throats, both trying so desperately to sway the other to their way of thinking. I always come when you call. He sighed, half exasperated, half fond, which really wasn't a new combination when it came to dealing with Dean Winchester.

Silence crackled across the line for a moment before Cas heard Dean echo his unheard sigh. He could almost picture the well-worn expression on Dean's face. "I'm going to keep call.........ou, Cas. So if you can hear me, I'd app......ate it if you'd let me talk to you, man.” There was a pause before Cas heard Dean whisper “Amen.”

The line abruptly cut off, and Cas was left in a ringing silence.

He carefully didn't think about the prayer, took a deep breath, and reached for his keys. Before he had a chance to turn the key in the ignition, his phone rang again, a harsh buzzing breaking the silence and the phone vibrating against his thigh.

Cas rested his hand over the phone in his pocket, trying to decide whether or not he was going to pick up. Despite his better judgement, he sighed and fished it out just before it would have gone to voicemail.

"Hello, Dean," he said shortly. The warmth that had always accompanied the words before was gone.

Dean cleared his throat. "Hey, Cas," he said.

He didn't say anything after that, and Cas waited for a long moment, his irritation growing before he growled, "What do you want?"

"I'm sorry," Dean blurted out. "Really sorry, Cas. Really, really sorry."

Cas pursed his lips and didn't say anything.

"I just--" Dean broke off. "I-- Can I see you?"

His voice was quiet and more tentative than Cas thought he had ever heard from the other man. He closed his eyes and rubbed a thumb over the bridge of his nose. He didn't want to. Dean's accusations still rang in his ears days later. But the indifference he had assumed hadn't materialized, and Dean was asking for him. I always come when you call.

He was going to regret this.

"Where?" he asked shortly.

Dean's exhale of relief was loud over the connection. "What state are you in?" he asked.

"Oregon," Cas lied.

"Okay, uh... There's a diner in Rock Springs, Lucinda's, if you wanted to meet there," Dean suggested, and it sounded more like a question than a statement.

"When?"

Cas could hear Dean thinking. It was nine and a half hours from Lebanon to Rock Springs. If Cas really was in Oregon, it would be a couple more than that for him. It was currently Sunday afternoon, so if they adhered to Dean's usual road trip schedule, he'd suggest Monday night, or maybe Tuesday morning if he was feeling generous or particularly tired. That would pose a slight problem, considering Cas's actual location, but it wasn't the first time--

"Wednesday at 11?" Dean asked tentatively.

Cas actually froze for a moment. That was...surprisingly...surprising. It meant something, he was sure. He just wasn't sure what it was.

"Okay," he agreed. And hung up.

He put the phone back in his coat pocket by sheer muscle memory. He stared out the front windshield for a moment, then shook himself and started the car. He had to get going. Even with Dean's unexpectedly generous timing, it was still seventeen hours to Rock Springs from Pontiac, Illinois.

--

When Cas pulled up to Lucinda's Family-Style Diner at quarter to 11 on Wednesday, the Impala was already parked there. When he walked in, he found Dean in a booth with a carafe of coffee, an emptied mug, and small pieces of paper from a dismantled straw wrapper strewn across the table's surface. There was a portable radio squeezed on the bench between him and the wall.

Cas didn't say anything. He sat on the other side of the booth, folded his hands on the table, and stared at Dean expectantly. He may have come when Dean called, but that didn't mean he had to like it. One of the wait staff started heading towards their table, but Dean waved them off.

Dean shifted in his seat. "Hey, Cas," he said, rolling a scrap of the straw wrapper between his fingers. "You want some coffee?" he offered, gesturing to the carafe.

"Thank you," Cas replied stiffly, turning over the clean mug on his side of the table. When he picked up the carafe, he noticed that it was much lighter than he'd been expecting, and his cup served to empty it entirely. "Been here long?" he commented.

Dean shrugged. "Not too long." He paused, fidgeting with the straw wrapper before he dropped it to the table. "Uh, here," he said, grabbing the portable radio and sliding it on to the edge of the table.

It was an older model, square and silver, with two speakers on the face and a cassette player and the radio controls in the middle. Cas looked at it for a moment, then looked at Dean expectantly.

"It's a boombox," Dean explained.

Somewhere in the mass of pop culture Metatron had dumped into his brain, Cas felt a small ping, but he couldn't quite make the reference surface. "What?"

"It's--" Dean looked uncomfortable. "It's from those movies...you know...with the--" he sighed. "They're chick flicks, man. And the guy has to win back the girl so he makes a big romantic gesture and stands outside her window with a boombox, and--" he broke off.

"And she takes him back," Cas finished, the reference finally clicking.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "She takes him back." He glanced at the radio before his eyes flitted to Cas. "So here I am, boombox in hand."

That was not... Cas cleared his throat and gently slid his mug in a circle, watching the black coffee swirl against the sides. "This is your big romantic gesture," he clarified.

"Yes." This, at least, seemed to be something Dean was sure of.

No matter Cas's feelings on the matter, he had been sure Dean had always seen their relationship in the plainest of terms. Friend. Family. Now, with the boombox sitting unavoidably on the table, Cas abruptly realized that maybe Dean was seeing the same depth he was, like a two-dimensional image suddenly offset to reveal a third axis.

His mouth went dry. "Go on."

"Cas," Dean started firmly. Then he stopped, as if unsure where to go now that he'd gotten permission to proceed. "I want to apologize first. For everything that I said-- For everything." He looked down at the scraps of paper he was fidgeting with again, but forcibly dragged his eyes back up to meet Cas's. "I didn't mean any of it. Not Rowena, not Mom, not... Not any of it." He paused. "I wasn't in a good place. I mean, it doesn't excuse it, but-- I wasn't in a good place. Mom had just died and--"

"Dean," Cas interrupted. "If you were 'not in a good place' every time you lost a loved one, or an apocalyptic event occurred, you would never be in a 'good place.'" He didn’t use air quotes. He’d learned that much about humanity at least.

Dean paused, appearing thrown by Cas's comment. "...Good point. Thanks, Cas." He sounded careful, not annoyed, which had been Cas's expectation.

Dean cleared his throat roughly. "I was in a worse place than usual, and I took it out on you." He looked directly at Cas. "I'm sorry."

Cas took a drink of his lukewarm coffee. "Did you mean it?"

"No!" Dean said quickly. "Not at all! I mean, yeah, Cas, things go wrong, things always go wrong, but..." He took a breath and it sounded like he was quoting. "Sometimes that's your fault. But sometimes it's my fault and sometimes it's Sam's fault. It's sort of a family motto." His smile was weak and crooked.

"And Cas," he continued quickly. "It might have been me and Sam for a while there, but it hasn't been just the two of us for years now; it's been the three of us - you and me and Sam. And we're just not a family anymore without you."

"So I'm an honorary Winchester?" Cas asked ironically.

"I'm not sure it's honorary anymore," Dean said honestly. "I think you're just a Winchester now."

Stunned, Cas blinked at him for a second before dropping his gaze back to his half-empty mug of cold coffee. As declarations go, it was more than Cas had thought he'd get. Years of being not human enough and not trusted enough and simply not enough had driven it home that he would never be Winchester enough for the brothers.

And now Dean was offering him the title of "family," as if he'd never meant to deny him it in the first place. I'm dead to you rang through his head, followed by the stifling silence of Dean's reply.

"What did you come here to say?" Cas asked softly.

"Three things," Dean told him, counting off on his fingers. "First, that I'm sorry for what was said, what I said. I was angry, but I didn't mean it, any of it.

"Two. You're family. Full stop. No matter what else, you're a Winchester til the day you die." His expression was definitely lopsided and crooked now. "Please don't die."

He grabbed another scrap of wrapper and started twisting it. There weren't a lot of untouched pieces left. "If you don't want to see me, you don't have to," Dean admitted, and it sounded like he was pulling teeth. "Sammy misses you. We just want to know you're safe."

Cas took that in. He couldn't deny that he had missed Sam, and it would be a relief to always get the benefit of the doubt - assuming anything in his relationship with the brothers would actually change, no matter Dean's promises. It wouldn't alter much for the rest of the world; all the angels, demons, and other beings he ran into who knew of him knew that he was associated with the Winchesters. It would be nice, he reflected, to have some of the unwavering support that seemed to come with the title. John Winchester, after all, had not been a good father to his sons, but they would not stand to have anyone malign him in their hearing. That might be nice.

Dean hadn't said anything yet, so Cas prompted him. "Three?"

"Three," Dean breathed. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them, squaring his shoulders, and meeting Cas's gaze head-on. "I'm in love with you, Cas," he declared.

Cas blinked at him. He hadn't expected that. "Okay," he agreed.

Dean didn't seem to have expected that response either. "Okay?" he echoed.

"Okay," Cas confirmed.

"Does that-- I mean, do you--" Dean floundered. "Can you give me more than 'okay'?" he asked. "Like...like how you feel?"

Cas certainly could. "Dean, I was lost to heaven the moment I met you, and I turned my back on everything I believed because of you," Cas informed him dryly. "Did you need anything more explicit?"

Dean gaped at him. "Well, I--"

"Because I did tell you," Cas said shortly. "Explicitly. That I loved you. When I was dying. And you didn't say anything." He paused. "So that was awkward."

"I see you've finally gotten the hang of sarcasm," Dean said, a teasing grin sliding into place. It was hollow, though, and Cas hadn't realized how much Dean had let his walls down until one was rebuilt in front of him.

"Dean," Cas said tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

The wall fell as quickly as Dean had erected it. "Look, man, I'm sorry, I am," he said, the facade he had attempted cracking easily under the weight of the conversation. "And I'm going to keep screwing up, both of us know that. I just..." He dropped his gaze to the tabletop. "I'm hoping you'd rather have me, cursed or not," he said, and the phrase sounded clumsy and unpracticed in his mouth.

Cas stared at him, wide-eyed.

Dean rubbed his hands together nervously and didn't look up. "You, uh, you gave everything for me, you rebelled and fell and-- You always came when I called, Cas. Always." Dean glanced up at Cas, and Cas wasn't sure what he saw, but Dean didn't drop his eyes again. "When I said I needed you...what I meant was that I loved you, Cas. A lot."

Yesterday, Cas hadn't believed anything would have been able to break Naomi's spell quicker than Dean's impassioned voice pleading with him to stop, spilling the phrase We're family. We need you. I need you. He had been wrong. Now, in this moment, Cas was absolutely certain that he was free of all spells and compulsions. Dean Winchester looking him square in the eye and telling him he loved him (twice!) would have broken any enchantment on him thrice over.

"When I asked you what was real, you told me that we were," Dean continued. "And Cas? That's been true the whole time. Everything. Every time you showed up for a hunt and hung around after for burgers and milkshakes. Every time I was at the end of my rope and you bailed me out. Every time you were lost and I found you." Dean swallowed and added quieter, "Every time I was lost and you found me. That was real.

"I know I haven't been the best friend," Dean admitted, closing his eyes briefly, too long to be a blink. "Or the best brother. Or the best partner. And I'm sorry. But Cas," Dean said roughly. "There has never been a day since you raised me that I haven't thought of you." And when he looked at Cas, the falling angel could see that there was absolute truth in the hunter's eyes. "I love you," he finished simply. "I miss you."

"Dean," Cas said, and this time, he couldn't help the warmth that spread through his tone. "What did you come here to ask me?" he repeated.

"Will you come home?" Dean asked, and the note of hope in his voice sounded rusty and seldom-used.

He'd know this was coming, but Cas still hadn't realized how hard it would be to deny his petition. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said gently. "Not right now."

Dean's shoulders slumped. "Right," he said. "Sure."

"I just think we should take this slow," Cas told him quickly. "We both made enough mistakes; I want to make sure we do it right this time."

Dean perked up slightly. "Slow?" he clarified. "Not not-at-all?"

"Slow," Cas confirmed with a hint of a smile.

"Well," Dean said. "I don't think we've been on a proper, official date yet." He said 'date' with wonder, as if it were something he'd never imagined being able to use in this context, but now that he could...it was like pie, precious and meant to be shared.

"I've been told they don't count unless both parties present know it's a date," Cas informed him. Claire had told him that, reducing the count of theoretical dates he might have had with Dean Winchester to zero.

"Would you like to get lunch?" Dean asked lightly. "I'm buying."

"Yes," Cas told him firmly. "I would love to go on a date with you."

Dean's smile was like sunrise.

Later, after the burgers and shared fries and milkshakes in tall glasses, after Dean tells him he needs to take care of himself and to call if he runs into trouble, after Cas tells him to say hi to Sam on his behalf, Cas will stand slightly too close and tell Dean to call him. He tells him he'll answer if he can and call back if he can't. Dean will gladly accept Cas's offer, grateful to have the proffered connection at all.

"What are you doing," the man stated in a deep voice, speaking slow enough to separate each word into its own zip code of barely concealed frustration.

Dean shot a glance over at Sam, but they must be in between takes, because he and his co-star Jessica were talking to the short director with the sugar addiction.

"There's a word you can mouth that makes it look like actual speech," Dean explained defensively. "...I just don't remember what it is," he added.

"Oh my god," the man said, staring upward beseechingly. Then he took a deep breath and looked at Dean decisively. "No. Just have a normal conversation with me like an actual, real-live person."

"And ACTION!" the director yelled.

Dean forced himself not to glance over at Sam. "Fine," he mouthed. "What do you--"

"Aloud," the man insisted, sounding annoyed. "This isn't a stage play; this is a movie. The actors are being mic'd. You can actually talk."

Dean bristled. "Fine," he repeated. 'What do you want to talk about?" They were still on camera, so no matter how much Dean wanted to scowl and cross his arms, he tried to keep his expression friendly and his body language open.

The man almost looked uncomfortable at this point. "I'm rather certain that since you and--" He paused. "This conversation might be less awkward if I knew your name."

"Dean." He wasn't getting murderous vibes off the guy anymore, but that wasn't a good reason to relax his guard too much. He was at least pretending to want to make the scene work, so Dean unbent enough to add, "Sam's my brother."

"He's the lead isn't he?"

"Yeah," Dean said, the smile on his face no longer fake.

The other man cleared his throat gently. "I'm Castiel. Gabriel is my brother."

It sounded like Dean was supposed to recognize the name, so he shuffled through his mental rolodex of names attached to Sam's movie and came up with "The director?"

Dean didn't mean to wrinkle his nose at the name, but Castiel didn't seem to mind. He chuckled. "Yeah. He was short on extras so he coerced me into coming in to help."

Dean snorted. "Same, man. Sammy's got some wicked puppy dog eyes."

"CUT!" The voice cut through the milling din of the half-dozen tables outside the faux cafe. When Dean looked over at the table where Sam and Jess were sitting, he saw Jess with her head on the table, snickering loudly while Sam stretched and ran his fingers through his hair self-consciously.

Jiminy Christmas, Sam was obvious when he was head-over-heels. Dean scoffed. "He's got it bad."

Gabriel was already shouting something about continuity and method acting as he stalked across the floor toward the actors.

"Hmm?" Cas hummed, turning far enough in his chair that he could see the pair. "Ahh. If it's any consolation, I heard a rumor from Meg Masters that she likes him, too," Cas offered.

"Meg?" Dean asked, distracted.

"Jess," Cas clarified. "Meg told me that Jess likes Sam as well."

"Okay, cool," Dean said, relaxing back into his chair. "I'd just hate for him to go for it and miss, you know?"

Before Cas could answer, Gabriel cut back in with "ACTION!" Apparently whatever instruction he'd decided Sam and Jess needed had been dutifully delivered.

Dean fought the urge to straightened abruptly. Instead, he attempted to casually lean in, as if focusing on something Cas had said.

"So," Dean said into the silence between them. "We should probably actually attempt some acting, wouldn't you say?"

Cas rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "If you insist. As I was saying before, since we're supposedly at a Parisian cafe, we should be on a date."

"What?" Dean wasn't quite sure how that computed.

Cas actually looked a little uncomfortable as he tried to explain his reasoning. "I mean, this is a rather terrible spot for a business meeting. And you're not really dressed for it anyway."

Dean had to admit he had a small point. Instead of his comfortable flannels, the heathens in wardrobe had stuffed him into a dark button-up and worn jeans. Dean wasn't quite sure why he couldn't just wear his own jeans, but Becky had insisted.

"Okay," Dean agreed slowly. "A date then. First date?"

"Sure," Cas agreed.

"I'll go first then," Dean said, and slid on his flirtiest grin. "Hi there. My name is Dean Winchester. I'm an Aquarius, and I like long walks on the beach and frisky partners, men or women."

Cas smiled in return and Dean was surprised at the extra half-step of his heartbeat when he saw it. Dammit. "My name is Castiel Novak. I don't know my zodiac sign. I do enjoy beaches somewhat, but I'd rather spend time with my bees." He paused. "I am utterly indifferent toward sexual orientation."

It sounded a bit like something one of Charlie's girlfriends had talked about. "Is that a fancy way of saying you're asexual?" Dean ventured.

"Demi," Cas corrected, looking surprised that Dean knew anything about it. "Biromantic demisexual, to be precise."

"Okay, cool," Dean said, bobbing his head and attempting to ignore the part of him that was filing that information away. "I'm just a plain, old-fashioned bisexual myself," he told Cas, figuring turnabout was fair play.

"'Bisexual' I believe," Cas told him contemplatively. "I'm going to shelve 'old-fashioned' for now, pending further inquiry. As for 'plain'..." He paused, then his mouth curled up in a wicked grin. "I'm pretty sure plain people don't try to add anchovies to their watermelon and pineapple."

For a split second, Dean thought about being offended. But Cas's good humor was so contagious that a sharp bark of laughter had escaped him before he could stop it. Cas's smile widened and softened at the sound, which made Dean grin and his stomach tie itself into all sorts of interesting knots, because biromantic demisexual did not mean uninterested, it meant take it slow, and his brain had apparently already internalized the difference.

"CUT!" Gabriel's shout startled Dean. He'd completely forgotten that he was technically supposed to be acting right now. "What the hell are you two doing over there?"

Dean looked over to see what Sam had done this time, but instead of berating the two leads, Gabriel was staring at him and Cas. Oh.

Dean knew he was probably doing a pretty good impression of a deer in headlights, but that didn't stop Gabriel from ranting, "We're supposed to be watching these two fall in love," he shouted, gesturing at Sam and Jess. "Not a couple of extras!"

Dean very carefully did not look at Cas. He could feel his ears burning, but chanced a glance at Sam. His little brother was slumped, half-turned in his chair with his face buried in his hands and his shoulders shaking with laughter. Jess patted him on the shoulder and raised one eyebrow in amusement when she caught Dean looking her way. His face flushed further and he looked away again.

He still didn't look at Cas.

"Get off my set," Gabriel said at last. "Both of you." Then he turned and ignored them completely, directing some of the other extras to move to fill the gap left by their absence.

Dean knew when he was dismissed. Ears still burning, he got up from the table and tried not to trip over his chair or any cords as he made his way off the set. He could hear Cas following behind him.

The mortification didn't completely set in until he saw the crew, though. Once he was out of the glare of the lights, he could see the cameramen and the sound guys and the assistant director and all the other people that just seemed to accumulate on the edges of sets. They were all, to a one, laughing at him. Some were outright giggling, others were just grinning, but Dean would have shut his eyes against the sight if he could have guaranteed that he wouldn't trip over a light and compound his complete and utter humiliation.

Dean took the first opportunity he had to slip out the doors of the sound stage into the bright afternoon sunlight, leaving the dark cavern with its fake Parisian cafe behind him. As he blinked in the sunlight, he could feel Cas walk up to stand next to him. Dean didn't know what to say.

"Well," Cas said finally. "That was awkward."

Dean snorted and just like that it was alright again. "Oh, man," he said, ruffling his hair and taking deep breaths, trying to will the flush off his face. "I don't think I've been that embarrassed since Rhonda Hurley spilled my deepest secrets at Prom."

He chanced a glance at Cas. The lighting was different off-set, but the ruffled sex hair was the same, and when he met Dean's eyes they were that same shade of fuck-me blue. But he was also surprisingly funny and he kept bees and when he smiled Dean felt like he'd swallowed a circus.

"Have coffee with me?" Dean blurted out before he could stop himself.

Cas looked surprised for a moment, then he smiled wide and said, "I'd love to."

Across the icy parking lot, Aaron Burr looked up and gave a wave of acknowledgement. He cut a dashing figure in a long coat, practically the dictionary definition of tall, dark, and handsome. As Alex watched, he turned from his original path toward the small French patisserie two shops down from the municipal parking lot and instead headed for Alex's van. He hurried, but stepped carefully, and even then Alex could see him slip once or twice in his smooth-soled dress shoes.

The grumbling behind Alex had gotten louder, but he'd been content to watch Aaron's approach, until Phillip's plea - "Dad, close the window; it's freezing back here!" - spurred him into action.

He quickly rolled up the window, then opened the door and stepped out of the van, shutting the door firmly behind him. "Aaron!" he greeted cheerfully.

A dozen feet from him, Aaron stopped, hunching his shoulders slightly against the wind and tucking his chin further into his scarf at the same time. "Alex Hamilton," he said, and his voice was a low, warm rumble. "I was hoping to run into you."

He'd expected Aaron exasperated, or even irritated. He'd expected Aaron polite, friendly, and distant. He wasn't sure what to do with Aaron warm and rumble-y. His grin faltered. "Aaron. I was just--" And while he was faltering, he suddenly remembered the Plan. The very good Plan. No, not the plan Philip and Theodosia were cooking up in the van behind him. No. this was a much better Plan that involved himself and one long-lost, recently relocated ex-boyfriend. His seduce-Aaron-Burr Plan. "I was concerned," Alex continued smoothly. "We need to keep a closer eye on Pip and Theo," he confided in Aaron, inching closer on the slick pavement. "I think they're concocting a scheme. I mean," he explained, "I know they're scheming: I've seen Pip's notebook and I swear that boy lays them out the same way I did." He barreled on before Aaron could interject. "Anyway, I think they're planning something big." He inched closer. "I've seen the schematics," he confided in Aaron, jamming his hands in his pockets for warmth.

Aaron sighed and hid his face behind his black leather gloves for a moment. "Alex," he said, his voice muffled before he let his hand drop to show a hint of warmth and good humor in his eye. Alex's heart skipped a familiar beat. "I don't know how you got Theo roped into this," Aaron continued, and his eyes were dancing, "but you and I both know that if Philip Hamilton is plotting anything, it's because you taught him."

"Well, I never--" Alex started haughtily, feigning indignation.

Aaron waved him off with an amused half-smile. "Now I don't have all day, so if you could just tell me what your harebrained scheme is so I can go buy a croissant, I would greatly appreciate it."

He looked warm and welcoming and like every good memory Alex had from his early 20s. A gust of cold wind blew across the parking lot and Alex shivered in his coat. Aaron braced his shoulders against the wind and Alex made a snap decision.

"Let's go get your croissant," he told Aaron. "And I'll buy you a cup of coffee." He'd meant it as a statement, but it turned into a question once it hit the air.

Aaron did a subtle double-take, and Alex tried to hold a confident smile. Yes, I did just inadvertently ask you on a date. You interested? Aaron had been his first boyfriend, his first real love. And then Aaron had gotten a different job and moved away like they hadn't been building something at all. And Alex and Eliza had found each other and gotten married and had children together and gotten divorced.

Meanwhile, Aaron had apparently gotten married himself and had a daughter before becoming a widower. And then two months ago he'd come back to the same corner of the world he'd left two and a half decades earlier. Why? Alex wanted to ask him. Why here? Why now? ...Does it have anything to do with me?

But of course he hadn't asked those questions, because Alexander Hamilton might have had a rambling tongue, but Aaron Burr was as silent as a tomb when he wanted to be. He'd yet to get up the nerve to say anything the half-dozen times their paths had crossed in the last few weeks. And Alex didn't know if he'd get the answers he wanted by asking anyway.

So apparently that meant he'd asked Aaron out instead.

"Okay," Aaron agreed slowly. "Coffee and croissants."

"Okay," Alex repeated. "Let me tell the kids we're going." He turned around and stepped carefully back to the van. He knocked on the window twice and loudly announced, "We're going for coffee. Don't get lost."

When he turned back, Aaron was watching him, an amused, heart-meltingly familiar half-smile lurking around his lips. Alex beamed at him. "On to the bakery."

The pair slipped and slid their way across the blacktop to the sidewalk.

"What's the scheme anyway?" Aaron asked, his breath steaming in the cool air.

"What? Oh, yes. Well," Alex said, getting more animated. "You're going to love this, Aaron. Hang on, wait up." He tugged lightly on Aaron's arm to stop him a few feet down the sidewalk.

"What?"

"I have to tell you before we get to the cafe," Alex explained, ignoring the traffic at his back.

"You're going to freeze to death before then," Aaron said, pointedly looking at Alex's bare fingers.

"It's fine," Alex said dismissively. "Anyway, you'll never guess who owns that French bakery we're going to."

Aaron hummed distractedly in response, tugging off his own leather gloves and tucking them in a pocket.

"It's George LeRoi, Junior!" Alex told him excitedly.

"Really?" Aaron asked. He reached out to pluck Alex's hands out of the air, warming them between his own palms. "The LeRoi from Royal Burger?"

Alex faltered. The gesture was familiar and caring and so instinctual, Alex wondered if he'd done it for his wife. If Theodosia had perennially forgotten her gloves the way Alex so often had. Or if she'd been prepared and practical the way Aaron was, and this muscle memory was reserved for Alex alone.

Aaron looked up at his uncharacteristic silence and gave Alex a small smile that warmed his eyes and told Alex everything he needed to know about Aaron's intentions.

"LeRoi?" Aaron prompted.

"LeRoi," Alex echoed breathlessly. "Right. George LeRoi's only son and heir. He didn't want the burger chain, but he did go to culinary school and opened this patisserie."

"And the heist?" Aaron asked. "Elaborate and over-complicated as usual?"

A cough and a "'Scuse me!" broke through the warm bubble they were standing in as Alex realized the pair were talking up the lion's share of the sidewalk. It wasn't a busy street, but that was no excuse to be rude. Aaron flashed a polite smile at the disgruntled woman trying to get past and stepped forward into Alex's space, never letting go of his hands.

Alex took a sudden breath at Aaron's closeness. He'd forgotten how close they were in height, how a couple inches either way made up the difference. He could feel the warmth emanating from Aaron all down his front, a sharp contrast to the chill up his spine. He hadn't been this close to Aaron since...since their last kiss, just before Aaron had broken up with him and driven away.

"I--I let Pip do a lot of the planning," Alex told him, trying to keep his voice normal. "So it's not as elaborate and over-complicated as, say, the great Christmas Waltz Caper, but it's not bad."

The skin by Aaron's eyes crinkled when he smiled. Oh, those crow's feet were going to be the death of him, Alex thought desperately. "Christmas songs in August," he reminisced, lightly rubbing the backs of Alex's warmed hands with his thumbs. "What do you have now that it's December? Love songs for Valentine's Day?"

"The Battle Hymn of the Republic," Alex told him absently, trying not to melt into him like a Hamilton-puddle. Even if that's totally what he felt like. Somewhere in here, his plan of seducing Aaron seemed to have gotten turned around. He couldn't honestly say he minded.

Aaron laughed, and Alex hadn't remembered how much he had missed the sound. He pulled a hand free and wrapped it around the lapel of Aaron's wool coat. He was just about to pull Aaron forward into a kiss - polite manners be damned, the man had warmed his hands - when Aaron was jostled and pushed forward, just catching his balance on the ice before he and Alex would have fallen into the street.

"Sorry, Dad!" Alex heard, and it took a second to register that that wasn't his child's voice.

He looked at Aaron in alarm, only to see the look mirrored back at him. A second pair of running feet caught his ear and Alex twisted to look around Aaron, only to see his own son skidding intermittently down the sidewalk past them. A glance further down showed Theo, almost back at the van already.

Slowly, Alex turned toward where the pair had come from, still clutching Aaron's lapel, ignoring the low swearing coming from the other man's mouth, to see George LeRoi, Jr himself cursing a blue streak in the door of the patisserie, literally shaking a broom like a cartoon caricature of an angry shopkeeper.

Alex could faintly hear the chorus of The Battle Hymn of the Republic echo down the street. Glory, glory, hallelujah. His truth is marching on...

He wasn't sure if the proper response here would be to laugh, to cry, or to call Eliza and preemptively claim ignorance.

"I'm going to kill you," Aaron told him calmly. "I'm going to pay bail for my sweet little girl whom your son has corrupted over the span of two months, and then I'm going to kill you."

"And then let me kiss you?" Alex asked hopefully, his attention snapping back to Aaron.

The smile that spread across Aaron's face was blinding. "If you like.

Screw later, Alex thought. If Aaron wanted this too, he was damn well going to make sure they got it.

So he tugged on Aaron's lapel and wrapped his other hand around the back of Aaron's neck and pulled him unresisting into a kiss.

"Well, is he going to be back soon?" Sam asked.

The exasperation in Sam's voice was clear, but Dean kept his eyes fixed on the steadily shrinking yellow circle on top of the pie. "Doubt it."

"Dammit, Dean!" Sam was definitely frustrated now. "What did he say?"

Dean's shoulders were tight with tension as he carefully dropped the last dollop of meringue on top of the pie and gently smoothed it down. "He said there wasn't anything left to say." He clenched his spoon hard to keep it from shaking and inspected the entire edge to make sure the meringue had been sealed against the baked crust.

"It's like pulling teeth," Sam muttered. "What did he say before that?"

He sounded tired. Dean felt a smaller pang of guilt about Sam plop neatly on top of the giant hill of guilt about Cas that was hollowing out the pit of his stomach. "Hang on," Dean sighed. He used the back of the spoon to lift the meringue in little peaks across the surface of the pie before setting the spoon back in the empty meringue bowl. He slid the pie in the oven and set the timer for five minutes.

Dean grabbed the saucepan from the stove with the cooling remains of the lemon filling and handed it to Sam as a peace offering. "He said the plan in Hell went wrong," Dean admitted, not daring to look at his brother. "He said I didn't trust him anymore. That I didn't listen to him. That I blamed him for Mom's death." Each confession felt like it was scraping him raw on the inside. Like he was bleeding internally, but no one could tell.

Sam sent the pan down on the counter with a controlled click. "And what did you say?" His voice was artificially even.

"I--" Dean couldn't get the words out. Couldn't admit to Sam the accusations and blame that he had thrown. His fingers curled tightly around the edge of the counter on either side of him. "I--"

"You agreed." Dean knew his brother loved him. Even so, there were a few instances where he had figured it to be more of a theoretical fraternal obligation than a choice made out of familial affection. Parts of the first Apocalypse sprang to mind, as did the Trials, everything with Gadreel, and, oh yes, the entire Mark of Cain fiasco. Even so, that one sentence out of Sam's mouth shot this moment straight into the top three.

Dean couldn't stand one more moment of his brother's disgust. "Of course I did!" Dean shouted, his knuckles white where they gripped the counter behind him. "What else was I supposed to say?" He looked at Sam for the first time since his brother had walked in the room.

Sam's face was lined with grief and exhaustion and pale with anger. "What else-- Anything else, Dean! Anything! Anything but sending Cas away, again."

"I didn't send him," Dean argued, ignoring with long practice the memory of Cas's face falling as Dean had told him to leave six years earlier. "He left."

"You didn't give him much reason to stay, though, did you?" Sam snapped.

"He killed Mom!" Dean shouted. "And Rowena--"

"No!" Sam yelled. "No, he didn't! Dean. Jack killed Mom. I--" Sam faltered. "I killed Rowena. Cas had nothing to do with it!"

"It was his fault," Dean argued. "If he hadn't killed--"

"And what was he reason for that? I'm sure he had one."

"He said--" Dean hesitated and some of the anger bled out of him. "He said something about Belphagor eating all the souls of Hell and taking over."

The silence after his pronouncement was broken by the sustained beep of the over timer.

Sam's face was incredulous. Dean looked away quickly and busied himself with pulling the pie out of the oven. The meringue was beautifully browned after its brief sojourn in the oven and Dean set it on a cooling rack next to the apple, pecan, and pumpkin pies he had already finished.

The oven timer beeped again and Dean shut it off and set the potholders back down on the counter. The room fell silent again.

"Belphagor wanted to take over Hell by eating all the souls there," Sam repeated slowly from behind him. "And you didn't think that was a good enough reason for Cas to reevaluate the plan?"

"The plan was fine," Dean said impatiently, fidgeting with a loose thread on the end of a potholder. "We would have figured it out. We have before. It was fine, but then it went wrong, and it was his fault--"

"Things always go wrong, Dean," Sam protested.

"But why is it always him?" Dean asked quietly. He was almost pleading with Sam. Pleading with Sam to answer the question that Cas had refused to.

"You're such a child," Sam said coldly. Dean spun around to face his brother, a protest on his lips, but before he could speak, Sam continued. "Four years ago you were supposed to kill me. That was the plan. But then you killed Death with his own scythe instead."

"I wasn't about to--" Dean argued, but Sam cut him off.

"You never let me die, Dean, even when I begged you to let me go. You let Gadreel in me. You sold your soul to bring me back. But I--" Sam took a breath. "I said yes to Lucifer. I killed Lilith, even with you and Cas both begging me not to. I trusted Ruby over my family." The accusations lay in the still air between them, a decade of grievances aired.

"Sometimes things go wrong," Sam continued evenly. "Things usually go wrong; it's kind of our family motto by this point. And sometimes that's Cas's fault. But, Dean, sometimes it's your fault, and sometimes it's my fault. It just...happens."

"I did that for you," Dean said hollowly. "All of that, I did it for you."

"Yeah, well, you went too far, Dean. And we've already yelled enough about that, I think," Sam said in the delicate way that meant he was still upset but not about to pick a fight over it.

"Yeah," Dean laughed humorlessly.

"Anyway," Sam said, and it sounded like he was determined not to get off track. "Sometimes things go off the rails, and we can get mad about it, but that doesn't make it the sort of mistake that we cut people off over. Especially not this one. Even if we did lose Rowena." He swallowed. "It wasn't Cas's fault."

"He wasn't supposed to leave," Dean said helplessly.

"What?"

"He...he said...years ago, during the Mark stuff," Dean looked down at his hands for a moment. "He said that everyone would be dead, except him, and he would still be there." Dean grabbed the counter behind him again, hands braced by his hips. "He said he'd always come when I call, Sam." Dean's voice broke in the middle of the sentence. His fingers clutched at the counter and he kept his eyes fixed on the worn linoleum under Sam's feet.

"Well..." Sam shifted on his feet. Dean's grip on the counter tightened until he knew his fingers were white, and he tried to keep his breathing under control. "Have you tried calling him?"

Dean let out a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. "No. I can't, I--" His fingers ached against the edge of the stainless steel counter.

"Why can't you?" Sam asked cautiously. "I mean, I'm not sure if he's still tuned into angel radio, but I'm pretty sure he's still got his cell on him."

"He might not be," Dean said, focusing on Sam. "That's one of the things he said. That he's losing power again." Dean flexed his fingers. "I didn't listen," he added quietly.

"It's not the first time he's fallen, though," Sam pointed out. "It's not like it's new."

Dean stifled another twinge of guilt at the six-year-old memory of a freshly-fallen Cas turning up at the bunker and expecting the welcome he should have been given.

"I mean," Sam continued. "He's been falling on-and-off really since we met him."

"Yeah." Dean thought nostalgically about the unearthly Castiel who had blown the doors off a barn in Illinois and made the air around him crackle with ozone. "He was really worried about it the first time. He got shored up though. He figured it was--oh." Dean's fingers went slack in realization and he was wide-eyed when he turned back to Sam.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Chuck. Cas always thought it was God who had powered him back up after you jumped into the Cage. And now with Chuck on the outs..."

"You think that's why Cas's losing power again," Sam finished.

Dean nodded grimly. "It makes sense."

"If he's falling again, falling for good, we should be there," Sam said firmly. "Not because he needs us," he added quickly, "but because his family should be there for him anyway."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. But," he hesitated, his fingers curling loosely over the counter again. "I can't call him, Sam," he admitted quietly.

"Why not?" Sam asked, frustration seeping through. "Just call him and tell him you're sorry. That it wasn't his fault and there's always a place for him here."

Dean opened his mouth, but I'm dead to you echoed too loudly in his head for him to speak. "I just...what I said, Sam...I can't--"

Sam sighed loudly. "Okay," he said. "Do you want to make up with Cas? Make things right with him?"

"Yes," Dean said immediately. Then he thought about the anger and sadness in Cas's eyes before he left. He thought about the months when he thought Cas was dead after the leviathan. He thought about the months Cas was trapped in Purgatory. He thought about the long years in front of him if Cas never came home. "Yes," he repeated. "I do."

"Good," Sam said firmly. "That's good, because if you didn't, I was going to have to kick your ass. Now, I know you and Cas used to talk a lot and I was only there for some of it. So I know there's some really sentimental stuff you guys were throwing around."

Dean looked up sharply at Sam, but his younger brother wasn't sneering, just teasing with a knowing look on his face. Dean swallowed.

"I'm sure 'more profound bond' was the least of your endearments." Sam didn't really have to look so smug about the whole thing, but Dean could hardly say he was wrong.

"Yeah," Dean agreed hoarsely.

I was getting too close to the humans in my charge - you

, floated across his mind, accompanied by such lines as

I gave everything for you.

The sort of lines Dean ruminated on when he couldn't sleep and the night seemed too cold and too dark to be borne alone.

I'm hunted, I rebelled, and I did all of it for you

. Affection and love lurking in every phrase, warming Dean from the inside.

I prayed to you, every night. I always come when you call. I'd rather have you, cursed or not.

We're family. We need you. ...I need you.

You ask what about all of this is real. We are.

Dean realized Sam was watching him with a knowing look. "What?" he said instinctively, fighting the heat flooding his face.

"Nothing," Sam said, though his innocent act was ruined by his cat-that-ate-the-canary routine. "Alright, so what you're going to do is call Cas and convince him to meet you somewhere. Neutral ground." Sam's grin was growing, which made Dean automatically wary of whatever plan he was concocting. "You're going to apologize for everything you said. And then you're going to turn up with all those lines and memories and tell Cas truthfully how they made you feel."

Dean swallowed around the dry lump in his throat. His fingers tightened around the counter edge. It...wasn't a terrible plan. It was just terrifying. It was just everything he'd been avoiding for the last decade.

"You can have a boombox with you if it makes you feel better," Sam told him with fake solemnity.

"Huh?" Dean managed, attempting to carry on the basics of human conversation while most of him was trying to figure out how many ways he could say I love you to Cas without having to actually...say it.

"This is your big romantic gesture, Dean," Sam told him gently. "Like a John Hughes movie. And don't say you don't like chick flicks, because both of us know that's not true."

Dean just nodded. Big romantic gesture. Right. Maybe he could just...say it. Love you, Cas seemed too casual for the way this felt, but I've fallen in love with you, Castiel was waaay too far in the other direction. Maybe just I'm in love with you, Cas. Simple, hard to misunderstand. Right.

Dean nodded again and pried his hands off the counter. "Right," he echoed aloud. He rubbed his palms and glanced absently around the kitchen.

"Those will need to be refrigerated once they're cool," he said, gesturing toward the cooling racks of pies. "And you can do the dishes, Sammy."

Dean flexed his fingers and took a breath. "Right," he whispered again before stepping away from the counter.

"And where are you going?" Sam asked. Dean suspected he meant to sound put out about the dishes, but it was impossible not to hear the delight in his brother's voice.

"To get a boombox," Dean called over his shoulder as he leapt the two steps at the kitchen's entrance.

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the door for a moment, letting his breath out in a controlled stream.

"So how'd it go?"

Dean jumped, swore, and opened his eyes to see Charlie standing a scant two feet from him, Sam hovering just behind her.

Then he sighed and admitted, "It could have gone worse." Dean started to walk down the hallway toward the nearest Section, which had the double advantage of taking him further from Bobby's office and of carrying him closer to the brilliant white hallways that housed the Heavens of departed humans and thus the chance of grabbing a cheeseburger and a beer.

"What happened?" Sam asked, worry evident in his voice as he and Charlie flanked him.

"I got transferred," Dean admitted easily.

"No shit," Charlie snorted. "After the Milton thing, I'd thought that would have been a given."

Dean threw her a mock scowl. "Quiet, you."

Charlie continued without pause. "I mean, you were meant to make a Match, but you sparked off, what, three blood feuds?"

"Five," Dean corrected under his breath, easily navigating their way through the winding hallways of Heaven.

"Five?" Sam shrieked. Damn, Dean had forgotten his brother had ears like a bat.

"Pipe down," Dean demanded. "It's not that bad; I'm sure it'll all blow over in a generation or two."

"A generation or--Dean!" Sam was practically hysterical at this point. Dean rolled his eyes at his overly concerned brother.

"It'll be fine," Dean said placatingly.

"I'm not sure of that," Charlie warned. "Anna Milton and Uriel Cohen were supposed to be the Abraham and Sarah of the Second Coming. Now you've made them the new Montagues and Capulets."

"Eh, I prefer Hatfields and McCoys myself," Dean offered. "It's a more modern reference."

"Dean," Sam protested.

"Shut it," Dean said, annoyance bleeding through his tone. "It's fine. I just got bumped off Matching. It'll all work out."

"What did you get moved to?" Charlie asked warily.

"Guardian," Dean said flippantly as they turned the last corner into the proper Section. Ellen had just told him about a wonderful little Heaven with a bar called the Roadhouse in it and he was dying for a cheeseburger that actually tasted like grease.

"Bobby thought that was a good idea?" Sam voice was skeptical, which Dean was somewhat offended at.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He shot his brother a dark look. "I can pull off Guardian."

"You just turned a love match into the backdrop for World War Three," Charlie pointed out dryly. "I can't see what could possibly have Sam so concerned."

Dean scowled at the pair of them. "You're both worrywarts," he announced. "It'll be fine."

"With your luck the poor sap will end up running into traffic," Charlie informed him. "Who is the unlucky bastard anyway?"

"Castiel Novak."

A few seconds later Dean realized that Sam and Charlie had stopped dead in their tracks at the name. He turned around to see them both eyeing him, Charlie with pity, Sam with horror. "What?" he snapped defensively.

"You are so screwed," Charlie told him.

"We're all screwed," Sam corrected her.

"What? Who's Novak anyway?"

"If Milton and Cohen were Abraham and Sarah--" Charlie started.

"Novak is Isaiah," Sam finished. "A crazy powerful prophet who's going to be churning out some very important prophecies."

"What?" Dean was aware his mouth was hanging open unattractively in surprise. "Why the hell would I get Novak after the Milton thing?"

"Because Novak's a trouble magnet," Sam informed him grimly. "He came online ten months ago and has gone through seven different Guardians since then."

"Really?" Dean asked weakly.

"Yep," Charlie said, popping the "p." "And not the usual ways either; no demon attacks or anything yet. Nope!" she continued. "They've all quit."

"What?" Dean asked, confused. "You can do that?"

"Apparently." Charlie shrugged. "He must have broken a entire funhouse of mirrors or lost a warren's worth of rabbit's feet because that guy is unlucky. Like, the dictionary definition."

"What kind of unlucky are we talking about?" Dean asked, a sinking feeling making itself at home in his stomach.

"He's been struck by lightning twice--"

"--fell in an elevator shaft--"

"--stuck in the middle of a lift bridge just when it was opening--"

"--middle of hunting season--"

"--locked out--"

"--identity theft--"

"--four times--"

"--twice--"

"--can't understand how he's still--"

"Alright!" Dean shouted, holding up his hands to halt the flow of woe coming from two sides. "I get it, okay? The guy's unlucky." Dean hesitated. "Why do you think I got him?"

"Punishment?" Sam suggested.

"Karma," Charlie said decisively.

"C'mon, be serious," Dean said. "If this dude's so important, there's no way the guys upstairs stick him with me. I mean," he waved a hand around. "Hatfields and McCoys!"

"Karma," Charlie repeated. "You've ruined the world, now the world is going to try to ruin you. Mostly by making you run yourself ragged keeping Novak alive."

"Punishment," Sam said again. "For us." At the questioning looks he got from Charlie and Dean, he elaborated a bit. "The rest of heaven has obviously failed at exerting enough social pressure to get Dean to fall in line," he explained grimly. "Exhibit A: the Milton Debacle. As our punishment, we now have to watch as Dean runs this whole thing into the ground and we have to start the prophecy business all over again as well."

There was a moment of silence.

"Well that's fatalistic," Charlie commented.

"Realistic," Sam corrected. "The odds of Dean actually succeeding here are slim to none."

"I like Charlie's theory better," Dean informed him. "At least then I'm only dooming myself and not the next millennium of human history."

"To be fair," Charlie said. "You sort of already did that with Milton."

"I need a drink," Dean sighed, running a hand over his face.

"I'm not sure that's going to be enough," Charlie said comfortingly. "But you're welcome to try."

"It couldn't possibly make the situation any worse," Sam added darkly.

"Ugh," Dean groaned. He turned and starting stalking off down the hallway again, knowing Sam and Charlie would be following.

He had been fourteen, after all, when he had first decided to test his mettle against this whole "love" nonsense that English poets always put so much stock into. He had been home from Shrewsbury for the summer and his mother, bless her soul, had encouraged him to spend time out of doors, perhaps with the gardener's son, or perhaps the boys down the way. It had been Rupert Dance, home from Harrow, who had taught Thomas what it meant to kiss a boy and mean it.

He had been fifteen when he had come home to find Rupert Dance utterly besotted with the greengrocer's daughter. Eloise Blissett had taught Thomas how it felt to have your heart broken by someone who never knew you were actually serious about the whole thing, poor lad.

Now, Thomas was of good English stock and he took that to heart. It meant that you always paused for teatime and never let on how much someone hurt you, so he stiffened his upper lip and carried on. He determined that regardless of the way Rupert's kisses had quickened his heart, there must be something to the idea of women, else Eloise wouldn't have garnered such attention.

He was sixteen when a hastily aborted venture with Margaret Brown taught Thomas that no matter what other men might think of women, the entire notion was very much not for him, thank you very much.

He had taken a brief sabbatical from romance for the remainder of his time at Shrewsbury, much to the dismay of his mother, who had become rather over-hopeful when Ms. Brown had entered the picture. Uni, he determined, would be different.

Uni, it was determined, was not really all that different. For one, most of the same boys were now reading Economics and History right along with him. Much like Thomas, the other young men skipping classes were also destined to take their father's place in the Home Office and marry a young woman of good family to the delight of their mothers. Unlike Thomas, however, most of them seemed to be looking forward to it, as long as their destinies could be put off for a year or five, there's a chap.

Unfortunately for Thomas's mother, he really wanted as little as possible to do with either the Home Office or young women of good family.

Fortunately for Thomas, in the spring of his second year at Cambridge, he met David Mellenby.

Mellenby was reading Chemistry and his greatest ambition was to join the RAF. Thomas was instantly smitten. Mellenby was exactly everything his mother did not want him to associate with: a man who was not inclined toward quiet civil service and wanted to fly jet aeroplanes. Now, regardless of how his mother might have seen the situation, Thomas did not associate with Mellenby strictly due to his "unsavory" characteristics, no. In fact, Thomas spent a great deal of time with David Mellenby because when he bent over his chemistry notes his hair fell in his face and when he talked about flying his eyes lit up and when he smiled at Thomas, Thomas very firmly believed that if he did not kiss David Mellenby he would have a heart attack.

Mellenby kissed him. Thomas did not have a heart attack. These two events are not strictly related.

Thomas spent two years kissing David Mellenby and not having heart attacks. When the pair graduated, Mellenby reiterated his plan to join the RAF. Thomas's mother reiterated her insistence that he join the Home Office. Thomas decided that despite his mother's best attempts, a quiet life of civil service and marrying a young woman of good family was never in the cards for him. He joined the RAF with Mellenby instead.

The Royal Air Force taught Thomas how to fly and Mellenby taught Thomas how to fall. Then a crash during a training exercise in Germany taught Thomas the way grief and horror can catch in your throat and choke you, the way a leg twisted with scars can send you home, and the way the crumpled remains of a charred helicopter can lurk behind your eyelids and wake you screaming from a dead sleep.

Thomas's mother wasn't quite sure how to best help her son after his discharge. She took him to his medical appointments and held his hand and when he decided to join the Home Office, she took her victory with grace.

Thomas worked and moved into his own flat and built a life for himself, bricking up the holes where he had once imagined Mellenby standing. When his mother got sick, he took her to medical appointments and held her hand and when she died he buried her in the family plot next to his father. The last thing she said to him was that she hoped he would be happy, and perhaps find himself a young man of good family to grow old with.

By this point in his life, Thomas had very much given up on the entire idea of love. He had tried it a few times, but it had never seemed to work out, and even when things had been going well, fate had intervened and left him with scars, nightmares, and an empty flat.

Yet, his mother had asked that he try, so Thomas dutifully dusted off his best suit and asked Hugh Oswald to dinner. Oswald had been a year behind Thomas at Shrewsbury and had read Biology at Oxford. He worked now doing something with bees and Hyde Park, but Thomas couldn't quite summon enough interest to keep the conversation going over dinner. Instead, they exchanged half-hearted comments on the menu and quietly decided to go dutch on the bill.

Enough, Thomas decided, was enough. His mother had meant well, but it was obvious that there was no place in Thomas's life for another person. Love was for children, after all, and he was well beyond childish things. So Thomas worked at the Home Office and lived comfortably alone in his flat and occasionally considered getting a cat and then never did. He had nightmares that became less frequent over time and a leg that required daily stretches and a cane that he forgot at home as often as he could. And he was happy. Well, as happy as a man like Thomas could be.

It was January when a young man in a Metropolitan Police sweatshirt moved into the flat opposite Thomas. He was perhaps a half-dozen years younger than Thomas with a bright energy about him and an insatiable curiosity. "Peter Grant," he introduced himself. "And I work for the Met, but as long as you don't actually tell me about any minor crimes you're committing, I think we'll get along fine."

He was the opposite of Margaret Brown in every way. He had only a passing resemblance to Rupert Dance. And he was just like David Mellenby in all the ways that mattered. He was young, and Thomas wasn't sure if his mother would have characterized the Grants as "good family," but they certainly weren't bad, not to Thomas's way of thinking.

And when he turned to Thomas and asked if he wanted to get coffee sometime? Thomas opened his mouth, his knee-jerk "No, thank you" at the ready, when he realized abruptly that while he may not have thought there was room for love in his life, there certainly seemed to be room for Peter Grant.